


Power and Glory

by telemachus



Series: Waves of Glory [6]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Cold War, Espionage, Historical References, M/M, Modern AU, Politics, Twentieth Century, Unrequited Love, one-night stand, possibly heroic Glorfindel, sorry no motorbike this time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 14:26:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10414188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: Happy Birthday, Wynja2007.Short & (i hope) sweet, this goes some way to explaining Shame&Glory, i think..





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wynja2007](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynja2007/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Wynja2007.  
> Short & (i hope) sweet, this goes some way to explaining Shame&Glory, i think.
> 
>  
> 
> .

“So, hey, not that I’m not always ready to help out a blond in trouble, but any chance of you telling me what the hell that was all about?” and the matinee-idol hair toss, the too-white-to-be-true smile are as practised as the charm is real.

Fin sighs.

“I could tell you but – oh, what the hell – it’d be a lot easier somewhere – somewhere a bit quieter? Just us?”

A raised eyebrow, and a wink, a mutter of ‘oh now you’re talking my language, pal,’ and it isn't, it turns out, far at all to the other’s rooms.

And of course, however much Fin might like to think he isn't this kind of elf, he is. Because, as he said earlier, why the hell not, not now, not when there is no reason not to, not when everything that was worth waiting for has been and gone, thrown away, lost? So it’s quite some time later that the American returns to his question,

“And again, not that I’m not always ready with a willing – hand – for a blond like you, but – what the hell was all that about earlier?”

Fin is silent for a long moment as he continues to pull on hastily discarded clothes, then sits on the edge of the bed to tie his laces.

“Long story,” he begins, and even then, even then he is trying to turn away, to find a way to walk out without explaining, but the persistence of the man, “long story and – and do I know you from somewhere?”

“No, don’t think so,” he grins again, easy and natural, “I’d remember. Believe me, I wouldn’t forget you.”

Fin nods and sighs ruefully,

“Getting old,” he says, and there’s a hint of shame in his eyes, more than might seem warranted as he admits, “falling into the cliché – I didn’t think all you Men look alike to me, but – no, it’s the accent. You remind me of someone I knew back in London. But that would be over a decade ago, during the Blitz – he’s probably dead by now, dead or changed,” he sighs again, “friend of Algy – no, never mind,” and he doesn’t see the slight flicker of eyelids before he goes on, “earlier then. Well. I’ll take the risk, tell you it all – does me good to talk sometimes. Pour me some of that – what d’you call it – bourbon – and I’ll tell.”

Easier to start talking to someone’s back. 

Easier not to look this man in the eye.

“Not sure what you thought was happening, but believe me, I’m grateful for your assistance. That – whatever his name – one of your countrymen, I think – was just a little too close for comfort. 

Peter and I – we go back years. Knew him out in Spain, I did. You know how it is, you fight alongside someone, you come out closer than ever. Only seems natural to be still in touch now. Mind, he’s been all over since then – fought in with your lot – over in Europe, part of the landforces, been back to America, and now – he’s ended up back here. Not _here_ , of course, based in Ruislip, him and his lovely wife.

Antiquarian bookdealers – you know the type, nice old chap, funny little shop, smells of leather – not like that,” grins in acknowledgment of a shared joke, “leather and cheese sandwiches, tea stewed for days. Dodgy electrics, lights that are on and off, creaking floorboards – you know. Very British eccentrics.

Except of course – not quite so very British as all that. Hence the meetup today. Seemed like a good cover, coming out here to Cardiff. Long journey for him, and for me, for that matter – I’m not a local boy.

As you may have noticed. Elves in these parts tend to be more – ginger.

Still.

Big city, seemed a good place to do a handover. And it would have been – me coming in on one train just as he was leaving on another. He’d been over to Hay-on-Wye – and a more natural place for a bookdealer – oh, philistines your lot, all of you – more second hand bookshops than any sane town needs that place. Be running some kind of literary festival one of these days, I should say.

Anyway. Made sense for him to come on to Cardiff, change trains, but look round a couple of places first. Always slightly different – oh I don’t know – stock. And of course me, I’m footloose and fancyfree these days,” Fin sighs again, “no reason to be anywhere much. And Welsh lads – well. Some of them can be rather fun.

So, nice easy handover. Classic newspaper swap type thing.

Except for that – chappy. One of your – what are they called – I never get them the right way round. Initials. All of them – nasty men in smart suits. You know. Cheap suits as well, and that – that would really offend me. After all these years, to be finished off by someone in need of a decent tailor. Kirk, let’s call him.

Must have been on my coattails for quite some time, I’d say, to have been so close. Can’t think how I didn’t spot him. Maybe I am getting old, bit past it,” he drinks, swallows, “this sort of thing, it’s not so easy on your own. Miss my backup, my – doesn’t matter.

Still, if it hadn’t been for you – grateful, I am.

There’s me, all ready to go, sure of myself, and just as I’m approaching Peter, Kirk comes up behind me, and there’s a nasty little piece of metal in my side and a ‘You’ll be coming with me, mate,’ in my ear.

And it’s all very well for those who don’t know to say, oh but surely you can take him down, surely one good jab in the ribs, one kick, a – what is it called Goldilocks – a roundhouse blow, but it doesn’t work like that in practice, Kitten, no it doesn’t, not when you’re in the middle of a public place and people look, and this is 1955, people put great store by decent behaviour,”

Fin breaks off, as though remembering himself and shakes his head, glorious hair in disarray still,

“but you don’t want to hear about my personal life,”

Absentmindedly he begins to run fingers through his hair, combing and tidying it ready to braid,

“so as I’m stood there, wondering what to do, realising I have not much option but to go along with Kirk and his little persuader rather than risk handing over Peter, who is shaping up to be really useful, can’t risk exposing him, imagine how glad I am to see you noticing. Catch your eye – and there’s a talent on both our parts, I’d say, the meeting of eyes and knowledge of what’s meant by an eyebrow and a shrug,”

Looks up through his hair at the man listening and shares a conspiratorial grin,

“Needs must for some of us, eh? Anyway. So you follow me out, as Kirk is hustling me over to his taxi – and honestly, sorry to speak ill of a compatriot of yours, and I know it’s bad form to speak so of the dead, but – a black London taxi, idling, in the centre of Cardiff? What was he thinking? And imagine how delighted I am to hear your – charming – voice start up with, “Say, you sure this gentleman wants to be going with you? Only where I’m from,”

Fin pauses to ask,

“And where is that, by the way? Oh, shrug. Very well, I’m not one for – what is it they say, no names, no pack drill? Fair enough. Don’t suppose we’ll be repeating this charming – interlude.

Anyway. “- where I’m from,” you say, “we don’t think much of coves who have to find playmates by force.” And, this being 1955, Kirk doesn’t like the implications of that. Turns to, well, I’m not sure quite what he planned to do, but even as he does, his nasty piece of metal slips, and I can grab his arm. Of course, they never think these things through. He’s strong, for a Man, but that’s no use against an elf who’s been fighting and training since before his father was born – before his grandfather was born, come to that – and that nasty piece of metal is on the ground, his arm’s up against his back before he knows it. And again, thank you for your quick thinking, because you had him in the back of his own taxi, and the muzzle up against his helper’s head even as I put him out cold. Nice little trick that, there’s a spot behind the ears, on the neck, works a treat on anyone, Man, elf, dwarf or hobbit. They go all quiet and woozy, unable to think or move, but give them a couple of hours they spring back good as new. So, you seeming like a sensible chap, what can I do, but give the driver the same treatment and let you take the wheel.

Believe me, I’m grateful. And that you didn’t argue when I told you where to go, just lucky that you knew the way down to the docks from central station,”

Finn looks at the American, and winks,

“Mind, I guess it’s not a surprise that someone like you would always know the quickest way to the docks. All the world loves a sailor, and isn't that the truth?”

Laughs and again misses the flicker of eyelids covering something else,

“Lucky you might call it as well that I saw Peter heading back up to the station, and I have no idea what he would be doing down at the docks. Not his cup of tea at all, I’d’ve said. Still. There it was. Work of a moment for me to jump out, hand him his brown envelope, and off he goes.

Leaving you and I, my lovely friend, to clear up the bodies. Or, in fact, to first of all dispose of their fea and transform them into bodies. And I’ll take all responsibility for that, your reluctance was noted.

Noted and not understood. These are employees of the American government, something with initials in. These are not nice people,”

The other man sits forward, passionate suddenly,

“He wasn’t. The taxi driver. He was just a taxi driver. An ordinary man. Unlucky. Caught up in stuff he didn’t understand. He had a wife, kids, you knew that, and yet you – what are you? What were you doing – that’s what I meant – what was so damn important that you’d do this?”

Fin smiles,

“Oh come now. It’s not that long since bombs were dropping that killed men, women and children in their sleep, old and young. And that was part of the great fight, that was a just war, wasn’t it? Don’t think you can waltz around in your long coat and pretend you didn’t understand what was going on –“ breaks off and runs a hand over his braid, as though in remembrance of something, “no. Unfair to the Man. So young as you are, I don’t suppose you really remember or thought about it. Very well. Yes, he was ordinary, but then aren’t we all? For all I know, Kirk had a wife, children, a dog, a mother. Does his work mean that they won’t cry when he doesn’t come home? Love is no excuse, family is no excuse, being ordinary is no excuse. There is no excuse, no way out. Sometimes people have to die, sometimes bad things happen to good people, to prevent worse things happening to more good people.

Believe me, I never wanted to do this.

I never imagined I’d end up doing this.

Passing the secrets, the details, of how to make a weapon bigger than any other. Giving a secretive state the power to destroy the world. Enabling a leader – a leader elected by none – a leader with not a drop of noble blood – to declare that he will have naught, and make it so. But if one side of the scales has this power, the other must also, or there will be no balance. And if these scales tilt, if that fear becomes too strong, that is when war will be unleashed, not these little proxy wars we are become used to, but real, all out, war. And the world is in no state to live through that again.”

He looks up, finally, and sees the white face, the appalled expression watching him,

“You mean – Peter – you’ve been passing – nuclear secrets – you’re spying? For the Soviets?”

Glorfindel nods, slowly.

“You killed an ordinary harmless man to give Krushchev a better bomb?”

Glorfindel nods again, and quicker than a Man can move, he has the stolen gun in his hand once more,

“Yes. And I’d do it again. Because it’s the right thing to do. Now, don’t you come over all heroic –“

But he does, something snaps inside the American and he lunges at the elf.

A move which can only end one way.

Glorfindel looks at the body on the bed, and shakes his head.

Empties the gun’s chamber, wipes it off, places it carefully in the dead man’s hand.

Turns away, and walks over to the door.

“With any luck,” he says quietly, “they’ll assume it was you on your own, mellon-nin. Believe me, I am sorry, this was not my choosing. But when you love someone, when you would do anything to keep him safe, to make the world a better place for him to live in, you find yourself doing some appalling things sometimes. Even though he will never know the truth of you.”

He shakes his head again,

“I’m sorry though. You really were a most – unusual – man. It seems a waste.”

The door shuts quietly behind him, and the figure on the bed sits up, panting.

“When you love someone, when you would do anything for him, to make the world a better place for him, you find yourself doing some appalling things sometimes,” shakes his head, “well, what do you know, blondy. Welcome to the world of Captain Jack Harkness. But I’ll be glad not to see you again, Goldilocks.”

 

 

.

**Author's Note:**

> Peter Kroger - the alias of the spy Morris Cohen, who did indeed fight in the Spanish Civil War, and end up an antiquarian bookdealer in Ruislip, passing secrets by radio from his back bedroom. Until he was caught - and never revealed who passed him the secrets......
> 
> Hay-on-Wye does these days have a literary festival, which i admit i have never been to, so Glorfindel got that one right.
> 
> Jack Harkness is completely gratuitously inserted here (appropriately enough ;0)


End file.
